


(Feel like) This is our beginning

by MemeKonMCU (MemeKonYA)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A Softer MCU, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Just Add Kittens, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Pining, Post-Endgame, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 11:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18894010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKonYA/pseuds/MemeKonMCU
Summary: “No,” is the first thing Sam says as soon as he catches sight of the tiny little head peeking out of the pocket of his hoodie, when Bucky puts the milk down on the kitchen table. “You hear me, Barnes? No.”And it’s exactly what Bucky had envisioned him saying, and somehow he can’t help the way his lips curve at that. There’s a comfort, he thinks, in knowing someone this well after— after.“No, don’t you— put that smile away, Barnes. No. That damned thing probably has fleas. And parasites.”Bucky shrugs, because although he’s been avoiding riling Sam up on purpose lately, seeing the way he’s been in his head, a little quieter, subdued, Bucky is only human, and he misses this with Sam.





	(Feel like) This is our beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely self-indulgent, and I'm nowhere near sorry.

Steve hugs them both and then he’s off to live the rest of his life as, in his own words, the senior citizen he already was even before he even had the wrinkles to prove it. 

He doesn’t leave them an address, and Bucky can guess why, can guess he imagines none of them would move on if they had a way to reach him. 

It’s— it’s sad, yeah. Bucky’s never been one for goodbyes, can remember how hard it’d been to say goodbye to his ma and his siblings after he enlisted. But it’s also— it’s good. It’s good to see the laugh lines in Steve’s face, the way his wrinkles tell the story of the good life he let himself have with Peggy Carter (he hadn’t said, had been real cryptic about it, but it could’ve never been anyone else. There had never been anyone else, for him). 

He knows Sam sees it too, knows he’s happy for Steve, even when he clings to the man when they hug, even when he watches him go with his jaw set, and his eyes just the slightest bit too glossy.

 

“You knew what he was planning to do all along, didn't you?”

Bucky itches with the urge to shrug, but has enough training in him left to read the set of Sam's shoulders, to tell that the gesture would be unwelcome right now, would be read as too nonchalant, callous.

Once upon a time, Bucky wouldn't have given a damn about being callous, wouldn't have even known how to or what it even meant, all weapon down to the bone, but nowadays things are— different. He's different. 

People are harder than they ever used to be, and he's clumsier around them than he ever used to feel _before_ (he can remember being charming and effortless and giving himself freely and can't get his body to remember how to do it without tensing up), but Sam is a rare exception. 

Sam is cut from the same cloth Steve was, righteous and good to his marrow. But he's also an entirely different brand of good, has all these ideas and all these different perspectives, and where Steve might have chosen to clench his jaw and swallow down his frustration the way he learned to way back when, Sam will either barrel through or do a tactical retreat, only to come back to the issue when you least expect it and disarm you in ways so subtle, Bucky would have to call them artful.

He's also a real asshole, and the only person who hasn't ever treated him like he's made of spun glass. The only person who seems to look at him and see him the way he is, instead of the way he used to be, or the way he was made to be—looks at him and clucks his tongue at how messy he is and raises an eyebrow at his weird antics, and calls him out on being an asshole (especially on mornings when he drinks what's left of the milk and puts the carton back in the fridge just to see Sam's reaction when he goes to grab it for his coffee and finds it empty). 

So Sam is different, easier. 

It still takes him a couple of minutes to think his answer through.

“He gets this look, Steve. When nobody's watching and he's cooking up a crazed plan that he knows people will have thoughts about.”

Sam sighs, and his shoulders fall, like someone's cut the strings holding them up, and Bucky wants to put a hand on his upper back, between his shoulder blades, where he knows Sam holds his tension, but feels awkward about it as soon as the thought is there and fully formed, and shoves it somewhere he won't have to examine it.

“I thought I knew his tells, is all,” is what Sam says, and Bucky hums. 

_I thought he trusted me with the truth_ , is what Sam doesn’t say, even if it’s clear as day in the way he looks, in the purse of his mouth.

“It’s harder to see, the first time,” Bucky replies. 

_Steve never lied to you_ , is what he doesn't say, because he doesn't know if it'll help any. 

 

The apartment in DC had been Steve's idea.

Bucky hadn’t had much in the way of a home after all was said and done, had no attachment to a Brooklyn he didn’t know anymore and no relatives who remembered him to return to, and Steve had looked at him with those soulful eyes of his and Bucky hadn’t stood a chance when he’d asked him to sign the lease for his new place with him and Sam.

It’d made sense, after. Steve’s way of telling them to stick together, to look after each other, even with him gone.

“He could’ve used his words, like a grown-ass man,” had been what Sam’d said after they’d made their way back home without Steve; after they’d crossed the threshold and he’d made a beeline to where he knew Steve kept their copy of the lease, buried under some of his sketchbooks in the top drawer of the bureau in the living room. 

He’d grabbed it and sat down with it on their couch, flipping through it almost comically despondently. 

“We grew up during the Great Depression,” Bucky’d said, making his way into the kitchen for something to drink. “We weren’t as big on the whole communication business back then.”

“Would’ve done you all a world of good, let me tell you,” he’d heard as he looked through the pantry for some of the fancy loose leaf tea Sam pretended not to love, and he’d found himself smiling as he found the can hidden behind some protein shake powder.

“You’re probably right about that one, pal,” he’d replied, as he spooned leaves into two mugs.

 

The cat is nobody’s idea, really.

Unless you ask Sam. Sam will gladly tell anyone who’ll listen that it was all Bucky.

And maybe it’s not— entirely untrue. 

He hears the thing yowling from somewhere in the vicinity of the building one night when he’s lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing in and out slow and trying to trick himself into sleep. He grimaces at how piteous it sounds but tunes it out for a while, focusing instead on finding imaginary patterns on the faux wood painted ceiling— that one bump looks like a popcorn kernel, like the kind he and Steve would buy for cheap snacks back in the day; that knot over there looks like a kestrel’s eye, and that line underneath it looks like a wing— 

—like the one he’d torn off Sam on that helicarrier when he was Hydra’s Asset.

He shuts his eyes, feels himself shudder, and rubs two fingers over the thin skin of his eyelids.

And then he’s back to hearing it again. The yowling. And for a second there he thinks, stupidly, _trust me, buddy, I know_.

 

The next time he hears the thing he’s on a milk run, and he doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he’s in an alley, crouched in front of a mess of cardboard and paper and who knows what else, sticking his right hand out and making what he hopes are soothing, enticing noises.

For a little while there’s nothing, no yowling, no movement at all, and Bucky feels weirdly disappointed, but when he’s about to get up, there’s some ruffling underneath the trash, and then there’s a little black head peeking out, and a pair of startlingly green eyes blinking up at him, gaze almost evaluating.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Bucky whispers, holding up his hand again for inspection, feeling his lips twitch up in a smile when the kitten’s whiskers brush his fingers as the little thing scents him its fill.

When he feels a sandpapery tongue on the tip of his index finger, and then a headbutt against his knuckles, his gut clenches painfully, and he thinks, _Sam is gonna hate this_.

 

“No,” is the first thing Sam says as soon as he catches sight of the tiny little head peeking out of the pocket of his hoodie, when Bucky puts the milk down on the kitchen table. “You hear me, Barnes? No.”

And it’s exactly what Bucky had envisioned him saying, and somehow he can’t help the way his lips curve at that. There’s a comfort, he thinks, in knowing someone this well after— after.

“No, don’t you— put that smile away, Barnes. No. That damned thing probably has fleas. And parasites.”

Bucky shrugs, because although he’s been avoiding riling Sam up on purpose lately, seeing the way he’s been in his head, a little quieter, subdued, Bucky is only human, and he misses this with Sam.

And it’s just as satisfying as he’d pictured, the way Sam narrows his eyes and splutters in indignation, and it’s all Bucky can do to avoid smirking.

They just stare at each other like that for a couple of seconds, Bucky trying to look his most charming, and Sam narrow-eyed and determined.

In the end, their stare-off is brought to a halt when the kitten in Bucky’s hoodie takes a valiant and bumbling leap onto the table, and then it takes a couple of wobbly steps towards Sam, putting one of its small paws on top of the hand Sam has curled around a mug of coffee. When Sam’s eyes are fixed on that small, black paw, the little thing lets out the sweetest, most plaintive meow Bucky has ever heard.

“Oh, _no, you don't,_ ” Sam says, but Bucky sees his eyes soften.

When the kitten goes for the headbutt, Bucky knows Sam is done for, and he can’t help but full out grin when Sam grunts out, “Fine. But you’re on permanent litter changing duties, Barnes.” 

 

Sam pretends not to care about their new roommate, but he’s the one who arranges an appointment with a vet, and when they’re at the reception desk and Bucky’s trying not to fidget under the gaze of the matronly woman behind it, he’s the one who takes charge, leaning on the desk on his forearms and flashing the woman one of those smiles of his that light up his whole face and make him look like he could power an entire city just with that, his full lips stretched and showing his front teeth with that little gap, and his brown eyes crinkled. All light.

It's— a nice smile. 

 

Good news is there are no fleas. Or parasites.

Bad news is _she_ is slightly underweight.

When the vet asks for a name to call her, Bucky realizes that he hasn't given her one yet and feels like crap for a minute there until Sam is clearing his throat and saying, “Sweetheart. That's what we call her.”

The vet—a black woman that seems to be in her forties and who’d introduced herself as Dr. Rivera with one of the kindest looks Bucky’s ever seen— smiles at that, soft and sweet, before telling Sweetheart she's a good, lucky girl.

 

Bucky doesn't ask about it after, but Sam bites his lower lip as they're on their way to the pet store Dr. Rivera recommended and ends up sighing and saying, “It's what I heard you call her, okay? Don't make it weird.”

“Oh _, I_ shouldn't make it weird,” he says, and the deadpan quality to his voice is almost tangible.

Sam's nose wrinkles a little, and his shoulders do this little thing where they go tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing, and Bucky could bet anything right now that Sam is _blushing,_ and it makes him want to laugh and prod at him, and—

—lean into him to feel his warmth.

Jesus.

 

Sweetheart is in love with Sam, is the thing. 

Bucky will wake up at a decent, humane hour, and find her curled up on the welcome mat, waiting for Sam to come back from his morning run; he’ll find her scratching at Sam’s door at night, and he’ll laugh at her softly before picking her up and carrying her to his bed, where she’ll curl up with her back to him, as if offended at him. She’ll headbutt against Sam’s feet when he’s walking around the apartment in just his socks, and she’ll purr like an engine whenever she catches him with his guard down and gets him to rub at that spot under her chin that’ll set her right to sleep.

It’s all possibly the sweetest thing Bucky’s laid eyes on, and while Sam likes to pretend he doesn’t care about her, Bucky catches them together one sleepless night a few weeks after they get her, hides in the shadows and watches as Sam—sitting on the couch with Sweetheart curled up and sleeping on his lap, and the shield on the coffee table— rubs at a little spot on her head with one tender finger, and says, voice silk soft, “You _are_ a sweetheart, alright.” 

And fuck, looking into the tenderness of that moment, Bucky realizes that Sweetheart might not be the only one in love.

 

The offer comes a couple of months or so after Sam takes up the shield.

Bucky comes home after a winding walk that’d taken him most of the afternoon (Sam hasn’t staged an intervention, hasn’t told him what to do, but Bucky knows he wants him to go out more, and it’s— worth trying, worth doing, for the way he feels looser when he comes back home, and for the smile Sam gives him when he tells him about the things he saw), only to find Nick Fury in their living room, sitting on their one ratty armchair that Steve had bought from a garage sale, saying that it reminded him of the one his ma used to own, with Sweetheart on his lap, blinking sleepy green eyes at him.

He raises an eyebrow at her, and says, “Not much of a guard animal, huh?”

Fury smiles at that, and says, “She’s just a lady of refined taste.”

Bucky’s lips twitch with the urge to smile, but he doesn’t, still feels a little at odds when facing this man, still has no idea what to expect from him, or what is expected from himself, and it’s like an itch under his skin that he knows better than to scratch at.

When he doesn’t make to move from the hall, Fury just heaves a sigh, and says, “I’ll cut the crap here: want to join your friend Captain America working for S.H.I.E.L.D.? We could use a guy with your talents.” 

It’s not exactly a surprise, but Bucky still doesn’t have a ready-made answer, still has to frown at the man and think about it.

In the end, what he thinks of is Sam, suiting up and wearing the shield, going out there with nothing to protect him but his gear, and his military training, and his sheer spirit, and it makes Bucky’s heart race a little, thinking about the kind of threats he’s facing with every mission (the easy ones he shares with Bucky, the dumb ones, the ones involving kids who don’t know any better and get themselves in way over their heads. The hard ones he keeps to himself, close to his chest, and it drives Bucky nuts, the way he can’t find the words to help with the shadows under Sam’s eyes on the days after). 

He wishes he could say he thinks of the greater good, wishes he could be that kind of man, but he says _yeah, okay_ and all he thinks about is not having to attend Sam Wilson’s funeral, getting to see him grow old and cranky, and fighting him over the last slice of pizza for as long as Sam will want him there, for as long as he’ll allow.

 

Sam doesn’t take it as well as Bucky expected. Doesn’t take it well at all.

He lets his fork clatter to his plate (and the sauce Bucky made for their pasta kind of splatters all over their one nice tablecloth), and he _frowns_ at Bucky, not the way he does when he’s confused, or the way he does when he’s mock indignant, but the way he does when he’s honest to God pissed at him. 

“What?” He asks, and puts his own fork down, pointedly gentle. 

“I can’t believe him,” Sam says, and _oh_.

Sam is pissed, alright, but it’s not _him_ Sam is pissed at.

Bucky’s heart does this little loop-de-loop, like he’s twelve and holding hands with his crush for the first time all over again, all sweaty and twitchy.

“ _I_ said yes,” he tells Sam, and tries to go for reassuring, but barely remembers what that’s meant to sound like, and by the way Sam’s lips purse, and how he crosses his arms over his chest, he’s probably not that successful.

Bucky doesn’t avoid his gaze, though, is stubborn enough to feel like he can’t, and after a second or two, Sam sighs and relaxes his posture a little, face going all open and earnest, the way it does when Bucky comes into the kitchen for breakfast after he’s had a bad night.

“Bucky, you—” He stops, his nostrils flare a little, and Bucky can see him struggle to find the words. “You don’t _have_ to, you weren’t—”

Bucky’s gut clenches.

“—It’s nothing like that,” he interrupts, voice as level as he can make it. “It’s—”

And then he stops, because he doesn’t know how to explain himself without spilling his feelings all over Sam, without telling him that he’s in love for the first time in seventy years, and that the idea of standing idly by as Sam throws himself into dangerous shit makes his insides turn unpleasantly.

Sam just looks at him, eyes narrowed, and Bucky feels see-through.

After the silence grows a little suffocating, he says, “Can’t let you have all the fun.” 

Sam doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. Bucky wouldn’t, either. But he does that tactical retreat thing of his and nods, gives him a lopsided smile as he reaches back for his fork and says, “You are such a competitive shit, Barnes.”

 

Watching Sam’s back in the field is the easiest thing he’s done in a long, long time. It’s like putting on a worn, comfortable pair of shoes, all buttery soft leather that remembers the ways of your feet in its creases and folds.

It’s a surge of adrenaline to snipe at the guys creeping up on Sam, to give him the all clear and get Sam’s approval, warm and sincere and straight into his earpiece, before Sam does his thing, coming out of scuffles victorious and practically shining, looking the epitome of the American hero. 

 

Some missions are better than others. Some leave Bucky coiled tight like a spring, watching the way Sam holds himself to hide pain, watching the way the things he sees leave marks on him, marks that run deeper than any scar on his skin. Some missions they cut it close enough that Bucky has to check in on Sam all through the night, can’t sink into sleep, can’t close his eyes without seeing the way a bullet had flown too close to Sam, the way someone had almost gotten the drop on him. 

Some missions it’s Sam that can’t sleep, after, and Bucky pretends that he doesn’t hear him walking all over the apartment, stopping at his bedroom’s door more than once, because he feels like Sam wouldn’t welcome acknowledgement, like he’d say the wrong thing and make Sam retreat into his own room, where he obviously doesn’t want to be.

 

Sam gets shot.

Not shot _at_. _Shot_.

It’s— Bucky doesn’t see it coming, and neither does Sam, and Bucky sees the moment the bullet pierces through skin and flesh, sees the way Sam’s hand goes up to his shoulder, the way he almost crumples down in pain, keeping himself upright through sheer force of will, ignoring Bucky’s pleas to _retreat, now_.

He gets the job done, knocks the thugs they had been following for a couple of weeks out and gets them bound tight and in cuffs before he lets himself collapse against one of the walls of the warehouse, saying, “I think I’m gonna need some help here, buddy.”

And— _fuck him_. 

“Oh, fuck you, Wilson,” he tells him, before calling for help, already making his way to him, heart beating loud enough to fill the entire place up.

 

The entrance and exit wounds are clean, and Sam is lucky enough to not have more than superficial damage, but the S.H.I.E.L.D. doctor still keeps him overnight for observation and Bucky doesn’t even contemplate the idea of leaving, just parks his ass on the chair next to Sam’s bed and watches him sleep with the help of what he imagines are some really nice drugs.

When he still wakes up a couple of hours later, blinking his big brown eyes at Bucky and still looking a little loopy, he rasps out, “You don’t have to stay.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Sam breaks into a soft peal of laughter, and then tells him, “Is that any way to treat a gunshot wound patient?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Bucky replies, leaning back into his chair with his arms crossed, scowling. “Never was a field medic. I _do_ know how to deal with self-sacrificing assholes, though. Could write a damned book.”

Sam laughs again, and Bucky can’t help the smile that elicits.

When Sam slips back into sleep, Bucky lets himself tuck the sheet around him tighter, the way he would’ve with a sick Steve, and then he allows himself one swift little touch to the back of Sam’s hand, one little brush of his thumb over Sam’s knuckles.

 

At some point in the night he falls asleep, and when he wakes up he can see a sliver of light making its way through the space between the shut curtains, and then he sees Sam, looking at him through sleepy, half-lidded eyes, all sleep soft, and Bucky’s hand is squeezing Sam’s before he can stop to think about what he’s doing. 

Sam squeezes back, and Bucky smiles, probably looking the picture of a fool in love.

“You got real concerned about me, huh?” Sam asks, almost in a whisper.

Bucky thinks about denying it, saying something that’ll get Sam to give him one of his mock offended glares, something that’ll protect the soft underbelly of his emotions, but he’s— tired. Not just from sleeping too little, all contorted in a chair that wasn’t designed for someone like him. Just— _tired_.

 _Would’ve done you all a world of good_ , he hears in his head, in Sam’s voice, and thinks, _you’re right_ , and says, “You got me real scared, sweetheart.”

Sam’s eyes grow even softer, and he squeezes his hand again. 

They both fall back asleep like that, between one blink and the next, holding hands, and when it’s finally morning and he wakes up again, Bucky feels like he’s gotten the best shut-eye of his life, even with the crick in his neck. And when Sam wakes up, eyes blinking slow, making a little noise of contentment—even when he tries to move a little, jostling his shoulder and wincing—, and he turns his gaze on Bucky, eyes half-lidded, Bucky can’t help himself, feels himself expanding, growing past the limits of his own skin, feelings dripping all over the room, slipping into every nook and cranny, and he leans forward and kisses Sam’s parted, full lips. 

It’s barely a touch, a feather light brush of his dry lips on Sam’s silky smooth ones, but it’s enough to melt the entirety of his insides. Sam sighs into the touch, and brushes his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles, the same way Bucky had done to him the night before.

“Did you kiss all the boys with gunshot wounds back in the trenches?” Sam asks when they part, voice so tender it makes Bucky’s gut tremble and ache.

“Only the real pretty ones,” he replies, and he flushes a little at the way his own voice sounds, all syrupy sweet and flirty in a way he hasn’t been since 1940. 

Sam laughs at that, eyes crinkled again, and Bucky wants nothing more than to kiss him again, and again and again, until he’s breathless and warm and his eyes are more black than brown. Wants to feel Sam laugh into the kiss, wants to swallow the sound, keep it safe inside him.

When Sam stops laughing, he tugs at his hand with purpose, and Bucky realizes _he can_. 

And so he does.

 

When they make it back home later that day, Sweetheart is waiting for them on the welcome mat, flicking her tail and looking as reproachful as he’s ever seen a cat look. Sam, still loopy on pain killers, squats down and rubs her under the chin, says, “You really missed us, didn’t you, sweet girl?”

Sweetheart meows back, as if in reply, and Sam chuckles and picks her up.

If Bucky weren’t so painfully in love already, this would probably do it, seeing the way Sam holds Sweetheart to his chest, almost as if he were cradling a baby.

Sam denies it all, later, but that night he lets both Bucky and Sweetheart into his bed.


End file.
